


121 - Cute Meet at The Strokes Gig

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 16:10:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Would you write a fic where Van is alone in a Strokes show and he finds out the reader is on her own as well so he kinda approaches her and they end up having the best night ever?”





	121 - Cute Meet at The Strokes Gig

The Strokes were hands down your favourite band, so when your friend called an hour before she was meant to be at yours, you knew you'd be spending the night alone. Not going to the concert was not an option. She was sick and sorry, and you were forgiving. To try to make the impact less, you skipped the opening band and arrived late to blend into the crowd. The venue was small and The Strokes had opted to play a string of shows over a week in the small bar rather than one big venue on one big night. It was a cool idea, but it did mean standing around awkwardly in a bar rather than an entertainment centre, arena or theatre. 

When you walked in, the room was buzzing with anticipation. People were excited, but when you saw the line for the bar you decided against drinking. You slinked around the edges of the room waiting for The Strokes to start. They opened with The Modern Age, and it was perfect. You could feel the music in your soul, in your blood, in the very air you were breathing. The second song, Soma, was cut short when an amp blew. The band apologised, promised to return as soon as physically possible. The lights came on, and people suddenly felt exposed. It was an opportunity, though. You dashed to the bar.

The bartender gave you that quick look that said 'What will you have?' You stood on tippy toes, ordered, then watched as the bartender gave the same look to the guy next to you. He ordered the same. You made eye contact with him and swapped polite smiles. His dimples were beautiful, and you wanted to run your hand along the sleeve of his velvet jacket. But, that would be weird.

"Hi," he said as the bartender handed you both bottles. Moving to pull your card from your pocket, the guy quickly handed his over saying, "For both,"

"Oh no, that's okay. Thank you,"

"All good, honey. I'm Van," he said, hand out. You shook and were amused at how formal of an act it was. It must have been taught to him by parents that were aiming to raise a well-mannered boy.

"I'm Y/N. You didn’t have to…"

"I know. Just wanted to, ya know? Pretty girl at a bar alone. Got to cheer her up," 

"You're assuming I'm not already cheery? Mate, we're seeing The Strokes… This is possibly the best day of my life!" you beamed. Van smiled wide, all teeth and bright eyes. He nodded.

"You're not wrong. No reason to be gloomy tonight. You here with friends?" he asked, trying to determine if you were with the squad or with a partner. 

"Uh, no. My friend was meant to come with me but she got sick. Wouldn't have believed her, but she knows how much they mean to me, and I think I heard her vomit on her phone so…"

He laughed and said, "Gross. So… you're alone?"

"Yeah," you replied slowly. Would he judge you for it, or would he use it as an opportunity to creep?

"Me too! All my mates were already doin' stuff tonight, or they were going on another night," he explained. No judgment. No creeping. He did pronounce 'my' as 'me' though, and you weren't sure how you felt about it. "Anyway. I'm gonna pop out for a smoke real quick. Did you want to come?"

"Yeah, sure," you replied, and followed him as he weaved through the crowd. Through the front door, after somehow convincing security to let the bottles through too, you stood side by side with your backs against the wall. It had started to rain, only lightly but enough to make you uncomfortable if you were in it for too long. There was just enough eave to shelter you. Van held his bottle in the same hand as his smoke. When he exhaled it was foggy and visible.

"What's your favourite Strokes song?" he asked.

"Welcome to Japan,"

"Mmm... Probably won't play that but,"

"I know; only done it a couple of times live. What's yours?"

"12:51 maybe?" Van answered with a shrug.

"Good video,"

Van looked over at you, smiling and nodding. "You know what video I really like? Don't Mug Yourself by The Streets. He's at that breakfast bar thing and the scene keeps movin' and all the lyrics are like… acted out. And Graceless by The National. With the suits and how they just organised a day of carnage. It's just… Good." In the moments between 'It's just' and 'Good' you watched him search for the right word. Simplicity though was sufficient.

You told him about your favourite videos and favourite live shows you'd been to. An appreciation for aesthetic consideration was something you both shared. Then, when the sound of loud and loved music playing through amps, and you kicked off from the wall immediately. Van dropped his smoke and put it out under his boot. "Honey. Shall we," he said, and held an arm out. You took it. Heading back inside, you both handed your empties to security on the way through. "See mate, no harm," Van said to him and patted him on the shoulder. Cheeky.

The bar felt like it was filled with more people. Obviously, it couldn't have been, but the density of which people were packed around the main floor made it seem that way. Van dropped his arm from being hooked around yours. The Strokes were playing again, and with Van to bounce off, you danced. Van laughed and held his arm out of you to spin under. When Is This It? started Van made a face of love, and held his hands over his heart. "So sad!" he yelled over the sound. You nodded, and let him pull you into a face to face position. You slow danced to the song, and tried to not feel self-conscious under the watchful eyes of the people around you.

12:51 was played, and you realised Van only had a few good moves; most of which involved his swinging hips and a spaced out facial expression. Regardless, he was beautiful and so deeply in love with the music, like you. Then, the opening chords of Welcome to Japan. You covered your mouth with your hands, and Van laughed, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You sang loud and could hear Van singing too. Near the end, he spun you to face him and you screamed the words at each other. You did it alone. You did it for fun. You did it for everyone who's on the run. His hands and yours were acting the lyrics out, like you were in conversation. You're not just a friend. You're me born again. We'll be in this race until the very end. Van grinned, and you looked back on stage for a minute, but quickly your attention was drawn back to Van. Comes in once a month and he never leaves. He said he is broken, yet he lives free. Singing to each other again, you laughed between lines. Didn't wanna floor ya. I didn't wanna be there for ya. Didn't wanna warn ya. I'll be there. The song finished and you felt complete.

They ended the set with New York City Cops, then the left the stage. The lighting changed and people started to chant for an encore despite knowing that there would obviously be an encore. You looked over at Van, who was grinning, and pieces of his hair were stuck to his forehead with sweat. You moved to push it aside and wipe his face with the sleeve of your shirt. As you did it, you realised how much of a breach of personal space it was; how intimate. He smirked, realising the same thing. You stepped back. "Sorry," you said. He shook his head and pulled you into a hug. The encore started, You Only Live Once and Last Nite, and you used up the very last of your energy.

When the mic was dropped and the stage was empty, people started to file out of the bar and onto the streets. People milled around drinking water and coming down, and some lined up for the bathroom or to buy merch. You stood in awe, not knowing how to feel or where to move to. Van laughed hard, and you turned to look at him.

"What?" you asked.

"Nothin'. That was just… fuckin' class. They're just so good. Quality,"

"Yeah. I'm never gonna be the same."

Van shook his head and held his arms out. You collapsed into them and rested your head on his chest. He let you stay there for a bit, collecting your thoughts, sorting yourself out. "There's this place around the corner from here that does amazing chocolate cake," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Do you maybe wanna… go… get some?"

You stood up and nodded. He took your hand and lead you from the room, outside, and started to walk down the street. It was still raining, but a light spitting. It was refreshing, and as you walked you held your face to the sky and let the drops fall on you. With Van's hand pulling you along, you could close your eyes and not watch where you were walking. You heard him chuckle, and assumed he'd looked over at you.

At the café, where the staff knew him by name, you ate cake and drank tea. Talking, you asked why he wore a thick jacket to a concert, and what he did for a living, and where he was originally from, and if Van was his real name. He asked you what makes you happy, and where you want to travel to, and what your favourite band was, and if wanted more tea.

Back on the street Van walked you to the station and waited until you were safely on your train. You'd exchanged numbers, so the goodbye was temporary, but it still felt painful. The night had been perfect, and for it to be over so quickly was a tragedy

In the morning you went to see your friend. In her tiny kitchen, you made her chicken soup and delivered it to her in bed. You sat on the edge of the mattress, keeping your distance. "Still contagious," she coughed out. Telling her about Van and The Strokes, she said, "See, everything happens for a reason,"

"Police brutality?"

"What?"

"Nothing. But yeah, it was good."

You left her stocked up on meds and snacks. You wasted your day watching grainy video footage on Instagram of the concert. Then, around 4 in the afternoon, your phone rang. It was Van.

"Hey honey," he said.

"Hey. What's up?"

"So… My mate and his girlfriend are meant to go see The Strokes tonight, like I told you, but that bug that is going 'round got them. I just watched him projectile vomit across the fuckin' kitchen,"

"That was probably unnecessarily graphic information," you replied. He laughed. 

"Yeah. Point is but, that they obviously can't go. So… two tickets. You busy tonight?"

"I would cancel my entire life to see them again,"

"Figured. Send me your address and I'll pick you up in a couple of hours, yeah?"

Seeing them only twenty-four hours ago did not impact how exciting it was to see them again. You were sure you could see them play every night for the rest of your life and be just as in love each time. It was even easier to dance with Van the second time, and when he pulled you close to sway with you, you felt his lips brush across your cheek. There would maybe a kiss, later. Or, there would be a promise of a date that would certainly lead to a kiss. You were more concerned with the addition of different songs to the set list though. Each night they were playing different non-singles, and it was fucking incredible.

As Van launched you into the air on his shoulders, you were more at peace in the world than you even knew possible. Music, man, it does that.


End file.
